Chapter 1: Dark Blue
Chapter Text
All in all, life was miserable. However, it wasn't something in particular that bothered him. He wasn’t like some people who could pinpoint the aspect that made their life bad, like the lack of money or no love interest who filled their heart with joy and their brain with hormones, or a sickness that made their bodies ache on a daily basis. Truth be told, Vlad did have all of that too. He could have put the finger on one of those things and said “Here, this is why I don't enjoy life”. But it wasn't that easy. And it wasn't a mixture of that, either. It was more like he didn't see what the point was. He didn't understand why people struggled. He didn't understand the concept of happiness. There was no way to wrap his head around why he was supposed to try and make his life better. It would have been easier for him to go and study astrophysics and find a way for humankind to live on Mars. There was a point, an objective in doing that. But it wouldn't make him happy. Because he couldn't feel happy.
Vlad didn't have to go see a doctor to know that he was depressed, but his mother dragged him to one appointment after another in order to find a cure. In his bathroom cabinet there were dozens boxes with pills of all shape and color. “Take them and you'll feel better in no time,” his doctors said and his mother repeated it like a broken record. But Vlad didn't want to feel better . He didn't expect that he could feel better. Maybe he was just used to what he was like. He didn’t think that he could improve. So there was no need. It was hard to explain. It felt like he just had this two levels of existing: feeling bad and feeling very, very bad. And he was actually fine with that.
It's like cat people and dog people , he wrote down in his diary. It wasn't so much a diary, but more a collection of his thoughts, neatly listed in the silence of sleepless nights. There are people who love cats religiously. There are other people who feel that towards dogs. You'd think people can easily be categorized, put into either one group or the other. But there are a few people who don't give a fuck about either cats or dogs. People who don't see the appeal of either. I'm one of them. I'm a crow person.
He was, literally. It wasn't every night, but more often than not when the sun had set he'd hear a flutter of wings and then the sound of sharp claws on the windowsill. He had meat ready, or cheese or fruit, cut into small pieces in a bowl and covered with plastic foil in his fridge. The crow seemed to like peaches, so Vlad bought some once in a while although they were expensive. The crow took it from his hand by now, not even scared. It came hopping closer once Vlad opened the window with the bowl in hand. The black eyes were shimmering like beads, emotionless. Maybe, Vlad thought, it required a certain level of cleverness to live without emotions. Maybe for stupid people it was easier to be happy than it was for smart people. He liked the thought that he had the intellect to see through the concept of blind happiness. Not that he felt like he was a genius or something. But he didn't have to rely on anyone and anything but himself once he accepted that happiness wouldn't come to him.
His life wasn't a good one, quite the opposite really. It was miserable. But he was fine with it.
At age 17, Vlad lived in a hole in the wall apartment on the outskirts of Moscow. He'd moved out a year ago although his mother had begged him to stay (his father hadn’t given a shit, like always). Vlad suspected she wanted to keep an eye on his medication; but he had never taken those stupid pills anyway! Living on his own was was less tedious, picking up his monthly descriptions from the doctor, then exchanging it for a box of pills in the pharmacy. Stack it on top of the growing pile in the bathroom, instead of having his mother supervise the intake. He didn’t have to pretend to take one by one just to flush it down the toilet every day. Because he didn't allow his mother access to his flat she'd never find out, at least not until he died and his mother had to clean the flat from his belongings.
A thing that bothered Vlad a little was that he didn't have an elaborate plan concerning his death. As a child he had often thought that it would be cool to shoot himself, leaving a mess of blood and brain tissues on the wall. Like a painting that said, “Here died Vladislav Vladimirevich Yavlensky, he was an artist.” In middle school he realized that at some point someone would clean it up or paint over it and he decided to just cut his wrists and bleed to death in a bathtub. That way his blood would go into the water system and spread across the whole world. Whenever people drank water from their tap or bathe in the sea or got soaked by rain he'd become a part of them. He'd spread like a virus until he'd become the very essence of life. The problem with that plan was that they didn't have a tub in his parents’ place and he didn't have one in the hole he lived in now. So he just adapted the habit of cutting his arms open without the ultimate goal of ending his life.
Vlad still didn't have an idea on how to do it eventually. He knew he'd commit suicide one day, but he couldn't even bother to think about the details or the benefits of one method or another. In the end he'd be dead and it all didn't matter anyway. It was depressing to think that his entire existence was meaningless, even when he took the most drastic measure and ended it forcefully. Everything was just a drag.
For the time being, Vlad went to school and worked in a fast food restaurant part time, mostly after classes. The wage was a joke but it was enough so he could buy black nail polish and eyeshadow, the good stuff of course, not the cheap crap. The restaurant was just a few minutes walking distance from his flat so it was good enough.
His rent and medicine were paid by his mother anyway so he could spend his money on whatever he wanted. He had a collection of knives, razor blades and cardboard cutters, and he liked to alternate between them cutting his lower and upper arms and thighs open. The different kinds of blades caused different kinds of pain. When he cut himself it was important to him that the type and level of pain as well as the amount of blood was appropriate to his momentary emotional state. Sometimes he felt like inflicting the clean cuts of the cutter blades, sometimes he preferred the ripping pain and uneven blood floss of the knives. And sometimes he enjoyed the feeling of the thin metal of the blank razor blades cutting sharp and deep. The skin of his arms and thighs was a criss-cross of fresh wounds and old scars. The shirt of his work clothes for work didn't hide any of the marks on his arms but he didn't give a shit. Of course people stared, but it didn't matter to him. All that mattered was to see the blood seeping out accompanied by whatever pain he could get. Because that was one of the few things that felt real.
The glass door opened and a group of customers entered the restaurant, but on this particular evening Vlad didn't bother to greet the new guests. Well, that wasn't entirely true, in fact he never bothered to greet anyone. It was just before 11 and his shift would end in a few minutes, so that was all he thought about. He did look up when the group approached the cash register he was waiting behind with a “Well, look at that faggot!”
It wasn't unusual for people to insult him. With his skinny frame, white skin and glossy black hair styled in a sidecut he was an easy target even before people noticed his scars. There was really a lot to stare at and comment about and he was so used to it by now. Usually people waited until they had their food though before starting to call him names. Not today, apparently.
The group that had entered consisted of five guys in tracksuits. The way everyone had a different color made them look like the characters of a cartoon for kids. The Gopnik Rangers™. Vlad didn't smile (because he never smiled) but the idea was entertaining enough.
“Looks like Count Dracula has a new job,” Red joked and Green, Burgundy and Beige laughed. “Guess they don’t have onions in their wraps here!”
“Garlic.”
The thugs fell silent and stared at Vlad. “What did you just say?” Red eventually hissed.
“I said,” Vlad answered, very slowly, “garlic. It’s not onions that keeps vampires at bay. It’s garlic.”
There was a moment of silence before Red blushed a little, humiliated, but Vlad didn’t have enough yet. His voice was even more monotone than usually when he went on:
“And yes, we do put that in our wraps. Onions and garlic that is. And some severed heads and douchebag-testicles. If you want to check the list of ingredients, it’s right here on the menu or go on our website.”
Silent as a grave the quintet stared at Vlad.
“So, do you want to order or what?”
“Listen, emoboy,” Red said and leaned forward. He seemed to be some kind of leader to the group. Not that he was really distinguishable from his friends if it wasn’t for the color of his clothes. They all were big and dull, bulldogs in tracksuits. Well, maybe the one in the dark blue tracksuit stood out with his hat and the slightly concerned crinkle of his eyebrows, but Vlad couldn’t look closer because Red was filling his field of vision with his dumb face. “If I were you, I’d be very careful about who I am shitting on. Might be raining headbutts when you’re out for a little vampire stroll, bitch.”
“I was merely following my policies,” Vlad deadpanned. He could see the anger inflate Red’s neck but he didn’t give a shit. He never gave a shit.
The guys ordered their food with obvious bias. Vlad handed out their paper bags with even more obvious bias.
Only Dark Blue, the one with the hat, seemed a little embarrassed about his friends’ behaviour and smiled apologetically when it was his turn ordering. His friends had already occupied one of the tables in the far back. “A chicken wrap, please. Without onions.”
One of Vlad’s thin black eyebrows rose.
Dark Blue grinned. There was a gap between his incisors. “Wouldn’t want to scare you away.”
Vlad watched how first Dark Blue’s ears reddened, peeking out from his tousled strawberry blonde hair. Then the blush jumped over to his cheeks, mottled with countless freckles. It looked like someone had spilled gold flakes on his face.
“No onions,” Vlad typed into the computer. “Special requests take a little longer.” With unnecessary force he put the small standee with a 3 on it onto the counter, the clack too loud in his ears. “Put that on the table clearly visible. I’ll bring your order over when it’s finished. That’s 300 roubles.”
Dark Blue payed, that annoying smile and creepy blush still on his face. Then he took the number sign, not looking away from Vlad. “Thank you.”
Vlad could only grunt, then Dark Blue turned away.
Sure, Vlad was used to people staring. But he certainly wasn’t used to people fucking smiling at him!
Alyona, his relay, checked in before the chicken wrap without onions was finished and Vlad was happy enough that he didn’t have to carry it over to the idiots’ table.
When he arrived home, his flat cold and dark, he fell onto his bed exhausted.
*
When Dark Blue showed up two days later he was without the other four Gopnik Rangers. To make matters worse he wasn’t even in his dark blue tracksuit, but a charcoal colored one. At least he wore his hat. That and his annoying, dumb smile.
“A chicken wrap, please,” he ordered. “Without onions.”
Vlad grimaced. “Special requests take a little longer.”
“I know.” The brighter the smile became the more it annoyed Vlad.
He slammed the standee with the number onto the counter. “That’s 300 roubles.”
“I know.”
Vlad wanted to punch the smile out of his gold-freckled face.
*
Just like Vlad couldn’t pinpoint why his life was pure misery he couldn’t pinpoint what fucking problem that asshole had. Sure, Vlad had been snappy the first time the Gopnik Rangers had shown up, but that could hardly justify that Dark Blue/Charcoal/Black/Dark Grey/Dark Blue-again showed up for every single shift Vlad worked. Every. Single. Fucking. Shift. Smiling his goddamn smile with that goddamn gap between his incisors and those goddamn golden freckles and fucking shit, why did it upset Vlad so much anyway? Vlad didn’t give a shit usually. Why the hell did Vlad’s insides tense up everytime the door opened and that stupid strawberry blonde mop under this stupid hat popped into the restaurant?
“A chick-”
“Chicken wrap, no onions,” Vlad snapped, positively punching the order specifications into the keyboard. “300 roubles.” He held his hand out as aggressively as possible, but that asshole just smiled at him and handed him the money as friendly as ever. He didn’t even blink when Vlad slammed the standee with the waiting number onto the counter. Only his co-worker on the neighboring cash register gave him a sceptic look.
“Can’t I just wait here at the counter until it’s finished?”
Vlad wanted to scream. With a hiss he took the standee and threw it back into the small basket under the countertop. “Sure.”
Dark Blue stepped aside so the next person in line could place their order. It wasn’t like Vlad was paying much attention to him, but the way the idiot watched him with this terrible smile made his skin crawl. He used all self control he could bring up when the chicken wrap without onions was ready to not throw it into the guy’s face.
“Thank you,” Dark Blue said with a smile so sweet Vlad felt like throwing up. When he took the paper bag from Vlad their fingers touched. Vlad grit his teeth, Dark Blue laughed low-voiced, an almost inaudible “Hehe”. The tips of his ears were bright red.
*
Vlad stared at Dark Blue. “What’s wrong with you?”
Dark Blue stared back at him, his smile confused. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I think.”
Vlad sighed, annoyed. It was almost 11, the restaurant empty except for two girls in the far back and his shift almost over. He had hoped that the idiot wouldn’t show up today, his spirits clawing their way higher and higher the closer the clock’s handle moved towards 11. All in vain when the door had just opened and the familiar hat-topped strawberry blond locks came in sight.
“You’ve been eating that fucking chicken wrap nine times in the past two weeks,” he objected. “There’s clearly something wrong with you.”
Dark Blue laughed, voice low. “Hehe.” Then he shrugged. “It’s good.”
“It’s not. Especially not without onions.”
Dark Blue bit his lower lip. Vlad hated himself for it, but he felt kind of sorry.
“Seriously, I know you’re not here for the fucking wrap. So, what do you want from me? Are you stalking me because I insulted you that first time? I know you guys are mad at me, so if you want to beat me up fucking do it. But stop with the stalking because it’s fucking creepy.”
“I’m not mad at you.” Dark Blue looked at him with his light blue eyes. “And I absolutely don’t want to beat you up.”
Vlad huffed. “Then what?!”
Dark Blue’s shoulders rose with a deep inhale and lowered with a just as deep exhale. “I just wanted to ask for your name.”
“What?” Vlad frowned. “Why?”
Starting from the tips of his ears the blush spread on his face, making the golden freckles stand out. They seemed to become more apparent with summer just around the corner. There were a lot, really. “I thought you were so quick on the comeback when Borya was mean. It was really funny to witness. And I thought you sure seem to be smart. I... I like that.” He shrugged, his smile troubled. “I didn’t want to scare you or something. I’m not a stalker, promise.”
The confession was a little too much for Vlad to process. He tilted his head with a “Hm”, unsure of what to say. So this idiot actually didn’t want to take revenge or something? He had just wanted to know his name? That was a little hard to believe for Vlad.
“But you ate nine fucking wraps.”
Dark Blue laughed nervously. “Hehe, yeah, I hoped you would have a name tag or something. So I didn’t have to actually ask.”
“We don’t have name tags here, dumbass.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“So you ate nine goddamn chicken wraps - without onions nonetheless - because what, you thought my name would magically pop up in black ink on my forehead or what?”
“Maybe one of your co-workers would call you by your name at one point…”
“Are you fucking serious?”
Dark Blue shrugged.
“Why the fuck didn’t you just ask?”
Another shrug. “I had the impression you didn’t like me somehow.”
“Somehow?” Vlad was shocked. “I thought you are stalking me, for fucks sake!”
“I’m not a stalker, I’m really not!” The way Dark Blue defended himself made Vlad feel guilty.
“Okay, okay, I believe you.” He sighed. Of course he was a little suspicious. He didn't usually tell gopniks his name just like that. Especially not some who ate that many fucking wraps and lived through it. He wondered if the guy had had diarrhea from the shit they stuffed into the tortilla at least. It couldn’t have been healthy, that was for sure. And all that just to learn his name after he had insulted the rest of his gopnik troupe and him, too, actually? It really didn’t make much sense. And what did the guy make out of it once he learned his name? Was he expecting they could what, become friends? Absurd! That would never work, gopniks and emo kids were natural enemies, that guy and his friends usually kicked the asses of people like Vlad. They were like cats and mice. Or like cats and crows in Vlad’s case.
But as he stood there, looking at that stupid troubled smile he thought that, maybe, he wasn't the sole exception from the rule. Maybe some people were different in - well, a different way. Maybe there were gopniks that didn’t just hang out in parking lots and drink and beat up freaks like him. Maybe there were some who did want to become friends with people like Vlad. Maybe there were cat people and dog people and crow people and people like that gold sprinkled douchebag in front of him, whatever his spirit animal was. A squirrel probably, if his incisors and the color of his tousled hair was any indicator. A squirrel person. Why not.
“Vladislav Vladimirevich.”
Squirrelperson stared at him. “Excuse me?”
Vlad rolled his eyes. “Call me Vlad, okay?”
The smile spreading on Squirrelperson’s face was brighter than any smile Vlad had ever seen on him before. “Okay!” he beamed, holding his hand out. “I’m Slava! Everyone calls me Slavik, so you can call me Slavik, too! Pleased to make your aqua- aqui… Uhm…”
“Acquaintance.”
“Aquenn...?”
Vlad took Slavik’s hand. It was warm and big and tan compared to Vlad’s. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hehe, yeah. Nice to meet you!”
“So,” Vlad said when Slavik let go of his hand. “You want a chicken wrap?”
This time Slavik’s laugh was a little louder than before. “No, they’re not that good actually.”
Chapter 2: Crimson
Notes:
Warning: contains graphic description of self harm!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Vlad like in Vlad Dracula ?”
Vlad hid his face in his palm.
“That’s so cool!” Slavik’s smile was audible in the timbre of his voice. It was one of the things Vlad had realized very fast: Slavik was fucking outgoing with his emotions, they were practically all over the place. No chance to avoid them. No chance to stop him. When Vlad had once asked him if he was that annoying all the time Slavik had smiled at him brightly, the gap between his incisors so wide you could probably insert a coin there.
“I didn’t even realize before,” Slavik kept on chatting, walking next to Vlad on their way to Vlad’s place.
That was a thing he did now: walking Vlad home after work. It was probably the weirdest thing anyone had ever asked from Vlad. “Can I walk you home? You know, not in a stalker kind of way?”
Then again Slavik was full of weird surprises. He said his favorite animals were corals. Like, the stuff in the sea. Vlad hadn’t even been aware that they were animals to start with. “They are so cool and colorful,” Slavik said. “No one cares about them, but I do.”
Thinking of it Vlad realized that he was very much like a coral himself. No one cared about him, but Slavik did. The thought made something in Vlad’s chest feel weird.
So he had agreed when Slavik asked to walk him home. He had hung out at the restaurant a few times before Vlad’s co-workers had started giving them looks, and then he had still hung out there a few more times. In the end the shift manager had asked Slavik to wait outside because he was creeping the staff out, and to stay away from the restaurant a little, because he might shed a bad light on the restaurant and scare away potential customers. Vlad found it offending, but Slavik smiled and left the shop, saying “I’ll wait outside, okay?”. It felt like nothing could ruin his mood. A miracle really. So since then he sat on a metal barrier a little down the street, waving at him when Vlad left the shop after his shift had ended. As soon as Vlad approached him he hopped from the barrier and started talking.
Tonight was no exception.
“Seriously?” Vlad groaned. “That’s basically the first thing your gopnik-friends called me and they didn’t even know my name then. How could you not realize that?”
Slavik looked at him for a moment, strangely serious. “Why would I think of that? It’s not like you’re Romanian, are you?”
Vlad stared back at him, baffled. Sometimes it was hard for him to comprehend Slavik’s way of thinking.
That was actually one other thing he had learned in the past few weeks: Slavik was different than literally any other person Vlad had ever met, seen on TV or heard of. It wasn’t like he was stupid or something. It was just that he seemed to connect thoughts differently than Vlad. At some point Vlad had suspected that Slavik might be autistic, because his perception and thought process did make a lot of sense, it just wasn’t what Vlad expected from him. It was a different kind of logic. Then again his social skills weren’t remarkably bad, so maybe he wasn’t autistic at all.
Not like Vlad cared about it so much. In the end Slavik was just the way he was and Vlad was the last person to judge him. And if he was honest he did like the way Slavik was different. It was what had made them friends after all.
The idea of calling someone a friend was still new to Vlad. He hadn't had a friend since elementary school. Even back then most of his classmates had avoided him. The overall assumption that there was only happiness and friendship among children of a young age was complete bullshit and Vlad was a first-hand witness of the cruel reality. He couldn’t recall how many times kids had ambushed him on his way to school, or how many times he’d been bullied during lunch breaks. He’d had friends back then, two boys from just down the street, but when the older boys came to give him shit they were mere bystanders just like everyone else. Both the bullying and his friendship ended when in third grade Vlad brought a knife to school. He’d been transferred to another school and never found friends again. He was a misfit since then. He didn’t give a shit. Because of course he didn’t.
“No,” he murmured, walking down the street next to Slavik in this warm summer night. “I’m not Romanian.”
“They say he did impale people,” Slavik said, his voice low like he didn’t want to invoke something. “Can you imagine? That’s super spooky.”
“Hey, Slavik,” Vlad interrupted him.
Slavik looked up smiling like he hadn’t just been talking about impaling people. “Yeah?”
“What if your friends see us?”
“What friends?”
“Your friends ,” Vlad said with a special emphasis on the second word. “Your gopnik friends, Borya or whatever his name was and those other assholes.”
“They’re not my friends.”
To say that Vlad was confused about that answer would have been a horrible understatement. “But…” He stopped and tilted his head, the black strands of his undercut half hiding his face. “But you hang out with them, don’t you? That’s… that’s what friends do, right? We are friends, that’s why we hang out.”
Slavik had stopped a few steps farther and turned around. With a smile that was strangely mild for him he came back the few steps and looked down at Vlad. He was really a lot taller than him, towering over him so that Vlad only reached his chin. Vlad caught himself staring at that sharp jawline right in front of him when Slavik raised his hand and very gently brushed the curtain of black hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. Vlad’s heart skipped a beat.
“They’re not my friends,” Slavik said. His voice wasn’t more than a deep rumble, like water against a coral reef, deep, deep under the sea. “I hang out with you now.”
Vlad’s eyes flit up to Slavik’s and they didn’t miss how the blush on his cheeks made the countless freckles stand out even in the twilight of the suburb. And Slavik’s eyes were so blue!
With sudden clarity Vlad realized they were too close and he hurried to turn away. “Yeah, whatever,” he murmured and marched down the street.
“Hey, wait!” Slavik called after him, but Vlad waved him off.
“I’ll walk the rest by myself, go home.”
“Can I pick you up again tomorrow?” There was unease in Slavik’s voice and it stung in Vlad’s chest.
“Yeah, whatever, don’t give a shit!”
“Okay, I’ll be there!” The smile was back in Slavik’s voice, and it should have made that lump in Vlad’s throat go away that without a doubt was guilt or something for abandoning Slavik like that.
But for some reason even hours later Vlad felt very strange, curled up in his mattress and unable to fall asleep. He thought about the things that Slavik had said, and the way he had looked at him and especially the way he had touched him so gently. The tips of his fingers had felt so warm and soft against his cheek and his ear.
Vlad let his own fingers follow the trace that Slavik’s touch had left on his skin, a slight tingle, warm and sparkling, but it felt a lot different when he tucked his hair back himself. He bit his lip and stared into the darkness. He avoided closing his eyes, because when he did he saw the shimmer of Slavik’s reddened cheeks before him. Those freckles, like gold flakes. Blue eyes. The thick strands of strawberry blond hair. It was amazing how colorful Slavik was when Vlad was so plain, black and white and cold. Slavik was so different. He smiled where Vlad was bland. He was loud and enthusiastic when Vlad was silent and still. He was honest where Vlad was wary. He was bright where Vlad was dark. He was the exact opposite. Maybe that was why they worked out so well after all.
And maybe that was why Vlad was so confused. He wasn’t used to someone filling the void with warmth and sound and color. He didn’t know how to handle everything that Slavik threw at him. It was too much for his blank and blunt little existence.
So Vlad did the only thing that he knew would help him feel relief. He chose the cardboard cutter this time.
*
With the shutter down and only some thick candles burning on an old dessert plate Vlad’s bedroom was dark and cozy, the perfect lair for the depressed teenager. It was the third day after he had left Slavik behind and he hadn’t left his flat since then.
The wounds on his arms and legs burned like the candles on the plate. In the first night he had used the cardboard cutter. The next morning, after skipping class and calling in sick at work, he had used one of the smaller knives. The blade was duller and it was more ripping the skin open than really cutting. It bled more this way and after scraping the scab from yesterday’s cuts, his skin was smeared with blood. He watched it dry and turn dark brown on his pale skin, finally feeling at ease.
When Vlad was caught in a seizure of depression it was like time stood still. He slept and woke up oblivious of time or whether it was day or night. He didn’t eat, didn’t even feel hungry once the first attack of ravenousness was over after a few hours. From that point on he was just empty. And that was much better than everything he had had to deal with before. The only thing he had to care about was replacing the candles when they burnt down and open his skin, either with a knife or by scratching the wounds open again with his fingernails. The dried blood from before fluttered from his skin in tiny brown flakes.
When his phone buzzed on the third day he woke up from his shallow sleep. He hadn’t received any messages since calling the restaurant. His mother didn’t even know what was going on and he knew better than to let her know, so there was no one in the world who’d contact him. The situation was as disillusioning as it was relieving. Therefore the sound of his phone vibrating on his bedside table was very unexpected.
With a groan Vlad leaned over and picked up the device. On the display, glarily illuminated by the notification preview, was a message from an unknown number.
are you vegetarian?
Vlad frowned and unlocked the screen. The message still read the same but at least there was a small round picture next to the string of numbers on the top. Vlad tapped it with the tip of his index finger to open it full screen. However, he was pretty sure who the sender was from the thumbnail already. And indeed. He was greeted by tousled strawberry blonde hair and a tooth gap as wide as a 10-rouble coin.
Where the hell did you get my number from???????!!!
Vlad could practically hear Slavik’s laugh when the reply came within seconds:
i asked your coworker
Then:
i like your picture :D
He had no idea what picture he had set in his profile so he opened the settings menu to check it. It was a dark, blurred selfie, his skin almost bluish pale and the circles under his eyes so deep he could as well be suffering from tuberculosis and dying three hours after taking the selfie. He rather liked it, but he deleted it nevertheless so that there was only the app’s default stylized head silhouette. He googled for a different picture, then set is as his profile: the white letters on a plain black background said fuck off . He knew his mother would complain about it once she noticed, but he couldn’t care less.
Next he called Alyona.
“Vlad, good to hear you, how are you doing?” she chirped into the speaker the way only elderly ladies do. Vlad ignored it.
“Did you give someone my number?”
Alyona hummed. “You mean your friend? Yeah, he was worried about you. He just left.”
“So you gave him my number without asking me first?” Vlad couldn’t even be angry at her, she just was such a careless person.
“He’s your friend, isn’t he? He came to pick you up a few days ago, he didn’t know you were sick. He stopped by twice a day since then to ask for you. He seemed to be really worried. Did he call you? He was here just a few minutes ago.”
“What were you thinking?” Vlad moaned into the phone. “You can’t just give some stranger my phone number.”
“I know, but aren’t you two buddies? I thought it was strange he didn’t have your number to begin with. You guys seem to get along so well, I thought it was okay. I didn’t make a mistake, did I?”
“No, no,” Vlad sighed. “It’s okay.”
“Are you feeling better? You don’t sound very well yet. Are you resting enough?”
“Yes, I’m feeling better,” he lied, just so she didn’t worry about him too much. “I won’t come to work for some days, but it’s getting better already.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she sang. “Get well soon, okay?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He hung up and fell back into the sheets, exhausted. Turning his head he opened the chat with Slavik again, then tapped on the picture to enlarge it. Slavik’s smile was as bright as usually. The photo must be from some months ago, his freckles still pale. He wondered if he could count them. Not on the picture, the quality was too low to make out the single dots and they were too faint anyway. But now, with how bright they were on Slavik’s cheeks it must be easy.
Vlad woke with a start when his phone buzzed in his hand. At first he was relieved that the new message wasn’t his mother calling out on him because he had changed his photo. Then he was confused when he saw it was Slavik again.
whats your last name?
Noneya
There was no reply for some minutes, then:
am i at the right house? theres no doorbell with that name on it
“What the fuuuuck~” Vlad hissed, sitting up.
why are you at my house?
i made chebureki for you
Vlad felt like screaming and ripping his hair out. So that’s why Slavik had asked if he was vegetarian. He checked the first message, that had arrived a little more than two hours ago. Did that mean that Slavik had asked for his number, then went to cook something for him?
we need to hurry theyre getting cold
As much as Vlad wanted to block Slavik’s number and let him decay in front of his door he felt strangely touched by how much Slavik cared for him. He couldn’t even imagine why Slavik did that. But even Vlad couldn’t deny that it was incredibly sweet of him to show up at his doorstep with self-made chebureki.
Yavlensky , he typed into the chat. 4th floor
Seconds later his doorbell rang.
It was only when Vlad stumbled over to his front door that he realized in what a miserable condition he and his flat were. He hadn’t given a shit about anything for days, and the stale, cold air, the week-old dirty dishes scattered throughout the apartment, trash and clothes that needed a wash made him blend in with his surroundings perfectly. He could only imagine how he looked after not having seen a shower for three days, his hair greasy and his arms and thighs still somewhat stained with blood, even after most of it must have rubbed off onto his sheets while sleeping. He did not want to think about how he smelt.
The time it took Slavik to climb the stairs up to the fourth floor was just enough for Vlad to brush his teeth and wash his face. He was just about to run his hairbrush through his greasy hair when he heard the knock on his front door. He quickly combed his undercut to the side and hurried over to the door. With a deep breath he opened it.
Slavik’s expression turned from bright and happy to concerned and bleak in a split second when he saw Vlad. His way too blue eyes flit from Vlad’s pale face to his cut up arms, then to the wounds on his skinny legs.
Vlad cursed himself for not taking a moment more to dress in a sweater and pants instead of answering the door in just a T-shirt and boxers like a total idiot. He watched Slavik biting his lower lip when he looked up to him again.
“Nice to see you,” he said, trying to smile, but it wasn’t convincing.
“Come in.” Vlad stepped aside and let Slavik in, ashamed of himself and his flat. It was strange to witness Slavik stand in his apartment, looking around insecure. That’s why Vlad never had people come here to start with. He hated when he had to justify himself and the way he lived. Not like anyone would ever understand him anyway, no matter how much he explained. He was just a freak to everybody, a weirdo who harmed himself and lived in a dirty, dark hole in the wall, rotting and smelling and-
“That’s a nice kitchen!”
Vlad looked up only to see Slavik beam a wide smile at him.
“I didn’t know if you have a good frying pot, so I fried the chebureki at home but you really have some good kitchenware here! Do you cook a lot?”
With that Slavik was in the kitchen, placing a brown paper bag on the messy table and fluttering from cabinet to cabinet to check out Vlad’s utensils like an overexcited butterfly.
“I’m not good at cooking,” he answered standing by the door and shuffling his feet.
“Oh, no problem, I’m good at it, I can teach you.” Slavik had found the cabinet with the few remaining clean dishes and started to set the table for the both of them. “I make really good wraps, too, much better than the ones you sell in your restaurant. Maybe I can cook some for you one day.”
“Slavik”, Vlad murmured, his hand shaking and his shoulders tense.
“Hm?” Slavik turned to him with a questioning smile, his hand still on the cabinet’s knob.
It was hard for Vlad to look him in the eye. It was hard for him not to storm out of the door in just T-shirt and boxers and run, run because he felt so overwhelmed with Slavik’s presence, his voice, his smile, his care . It was this gentleness in Slavik’s eyes that had sent him down his latest seizure, three days ago.
“Why are you here?” he croaked, his breath shallow and rustling in his throat.
The smile died on Slavik’s lips and Vlad hated himself for making it disappear. Nothing should ever make Slavik stop smiling. It hurt so much. Why was he such a bad person?
“I made chebureki for you,” he answered like it explained anything. “With and without meat. I didn’t know if you’re vegetarian. A lot of people don’t eat meat these days.”
Vlad balled his hands into fists. “But why?”
“I’m not sure,” Slavik shrugged. “I think they don’t want animals to die for their meals, it’s-”
“Why did you make chebureki for me!?”
For a moment Slavik stared at him. Then his smile came back. “Because chebureki are a magic potion.” He let go of the door knob and straightened his back. It was impressive how confident he seemed to become within a second. “Your co-worker said you’ve been ill the past few days and you told me you live by yourself, so I figured that maybe you haven’t eaten enough. You’re so skinny already, and I thought it wouldn’t be easy for your body to recover from illness. No doubt you can use something nice and nutritious that will heal you in no time.” His tooth gap showed when he grinned. “Whenever I’m ill my mother makes chebureki for me and they make me feel better double-quick. You’ll be surprised how much better you feel after eating them.”
There was nothing Vlad could say. The tension in his body had vanished as fast as it had come. He just stood there with hanging shoulders, watching how Slavik cleaned the kitchen table from used dishes and rubbish, then sat down and opened the paper bag. The mouth-watering scent of fried dough filled the air.
He didn’t understand. That was, he didn’t understand why Slavik hadn’t realized yet that Vlad was a total letdown. That he was not worth caring for. It was so obvious. But either he just didn’t see it or he didn’t care. Not even after Vlad had left him behind three days ago, never telling him that he was sick. Not after Slavik had showed up at his work again and again to ask for him. Not after Vlad had just yelled at him because Slavik cared.
“Come sit down,” he said, piling the nice-smelling chunks onto the plate in the middle of the table. “The triangular ones are with minced meat and the half moon shaped ones are without meat. I added some tomatoes to the veggie filling, I’m not sure how that will taste yet. It’s more an experiment yet, hehe.”
Vlad sat down confused and moved. “Thanks for the meal,” he whispered.
Both kinds were delicious.
*
After their late lunch Slavik started cleaning the dishes, even though Vlad insisted that it wasn’t his job.
“I’m your guest,” he smiled, sorting the dishes into a slightly-dirty-pile and a needs-a-good-scrub-pile as he called it. “It’s the least I can do.”
“But you cooked already,” Vlad objected.
“You’re ill,” Slavik countered. “You shouldn’t do housework.”
With a groan Vlad surrendered and decided to take a shower. The hot water stung on his wounds but it was more refreshing than he had expected.
When he came back from the kitchen Slavik was busy with the second pile already, humming happily as he busied himself noisily splashing in the water. He had taken off his hat and his dark blue jacket, revealing a wife beater underneath that gave sight to his neck and toned arms and shoulders. Vlad didn’t want to stare but he couldn’t help it. Slavik had told him that he played soccer on a regular basis, even dreamed of becoming a professional, but Vlad had clearly underestimated the effects of the sport on Slavik’s body. Whenever Slavik took a plate from the pile on the left, the muscles of his shoulders and back shifted under the lightly tan skin, then shifted back, the plate dipping in the water. With his right hand Slavik scrubbed the residues from the porcelain, both shoulders tensing with the pressure. Then the right side shifted back and forth when Slavik put the clean plate down with the pile on the right to air dry. The tiny freckles on his shoulders shimmered as Slavik hummed a song Vlad didn’t recognize. He wanted to touch the skin when the muscles moved underneath. How warm it must be. How smooth. Tiny golden hairs on Slavik’s neck, his spine a gentle curve between his well-conditioned muscles.
Mesmerizing .
“Oh hey!”
Vlad jumped when Slavik looked over to him.
“You’re finished already? Would you mind checking if there’s more dishes in the other rooms? I didn’t want to snoop around.”
“O-okay,” Vlad stuttered but was happy that he could disappear if only for a moment. He could feel the blush on his cheeks burning like a glow wire. He couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder though, for another glimpse of those toned shoulders and caught Slavik smiling a peaceful smile at him. Embarrassed Vlad murmured something like “Berightback” and disappeared into his bedroom.
His whole body shivered when he closed his bedroom door a little too hard, his hands and forehead pressed against the wood.
“What are you doing,” he whispered to himself. His heartbeat had sped up. He grit his teeth but he couldn’t get it out of his head. The thought of what it would be like to place his pale, skinny hands on Slavik’s warm skin. How Slavik would smile at him, so soft, so gentle. What it would feel like to run his hands through the messy strawberry blond hair and count the freckles on Slavik’s cheeks, shimmering and golden, one by one. The blue eyes, so full of concern, watching his every move, looking down at his fucked-up arms and legs.
With not more than two steps Vlad was over at his bedside table. The knife was still there, the small, dull one, and the cardboard cutter. He couldn’t take the knife, it would bleed too much, he wouldn’t be able to hide that under a sweater. It was a different thing if he chose the cutter, though. The wounds would be thin but deep, the pain keen but the blood floss minimal. He started cutting without a second thought.
When he emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later he wore skinny jeans and his well-worn black favourite sweater, balancing a stack of plates, bowls and glasses and the lining of the sweater sticking to the fresh wounds. Slavik smiled at him and took the dishes, but Vlad focused on the stinging pain instead of the shimmer of Slavik’s tan skin. It was easy, with the fabric tugging on the wound with every movement.
“There’s some mugs back there,” he murmured and turned away again, returning to his bedroom. He piled the cups up to form a wobbly stack, balancing the unstable tower back to the kitchen.
Slavik was there with one quick step. “Here, let me help you-”
With a loud crash three of the mugs shattered on the tiles. Wide-eyed Vlad and Slavik both stared at the pieces of stoneware and porcelain in orange, black and violet sprinkling the floor.
“I’m sorry!” Slavik blurted out, the other four cups still in Vlad’s hands. “I must have… I don't know…”
“It’s okay,” Vlad said. “You got less to wash this way.” He looked around for a way to head over to the broom closet, still bare feet after the shower, but Slavik stopped him.
“Don’t move!” He took the four remaining mugs from Vlad’s hands and placed them onto the counter, then turned to him again.
With a yelp Vlad found himself in Slavik’s arms, pressed against the warm chest and lifted from the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he squealed, wrapping his arms around Slavik’s neck. He pressed his hands against Slavik’s shoulders, heaved up awkwardly. His legs dangled like bell clappers before Slavik grabbed him under his thighs and carefully carried him over to the kitchen table. He put him down onto the table, laughing lowly, still bent over and way too close. His voice was so nice and so close. Vlad could feel his warm breath on his skin.
“You are lighter than you look.”
“What was that about?!” Vlad knew there was a flush on his cheeks again and the warmth of Slavik’s hands that were still on his waist didn't really help. He was not used to being touched, especially not by someone as attractive as Slavik.
“You are barefoot and I am still wearing my shoes. I didn’t want you to step on a shard and… cut yourself…” His voice trailed off at the end and there was something sad in his smile.
“Let go!” With a weak gesture Vlad pushed Slavik’s hands from his waist. Why was the guy still so damn close?! And why did he smell so good?
“Vlad?” he murmured. “Can I ask you something?”
Oh my God, what now? Gritting his teeth Vlad looked Slavik in the eye. He must have noticed. Vlad couldn't even specify what Slavik must have noticed, but there was so much going on here, there was no chance he hadn't realized any of it. If it was that Vlad’s heart hammered in his chest and his face glowed like a fucking bonfire or if it was that he had cut his arms when his friend was next door. That way or the other this could only end bad for Vlad. Slavik would know and it would put them in a very awkward situation. And there was no way for Vlad to tone it down, neither the way his body was behaving like he was on a fucking roller-coaster, nor the way the blood was seeping into the fabric of his sleeves. His voice was nothing but a faint whisper when he said: “What is it?”
“Do you,” Slavik said, his voice deep and raspy and sexy, goddammit , “do you have a broom?”
Vlad wanted nothing more than to murder him.
He directed Slavik over to the broom cabinet and watched how he started cleaning up the shards from the kitchen floor, his legs dangling from the table.
“What's with that tattoo?” he asked. There was a big blotch of crimson red ink on Slavik’s left upper arm, vaguely heart shaped and so blurry Vlad could tell it was inked way too deep into the skin. That or they had used molten crayons instead of tattoo ink for it.
“Oh, you noticed?” Slavik looked up from the floor, where he was sweeping the mug pieces together with the dustpan gopnik-style, squatting. His smile was so proud it almost hurt Vlad to realize it was probably in the top five worst tattoos ever. “My girlfriend asked me to do it for our six month anniversary.” He turned his arm so Vlad could have a better look. “She said it would be so romantic if I dedicated it to her, but I didn't like her name, so I asked the guy to write You instead of Anya .” Indeed, there was something written in the middle of the heart. The size was a little off compared to how unnecessarily big the heart was, but in fact Vlad was kinda glad that Slavik hadn't been so stupid and have her name inked on his arm. “This way I can reuse it for future partners. Clever, right?” He chuckled.
“I guess she wasn't very happy about that,” Vlad argued.
“No, she broke up because of it.”
Because of course she had. Vlad sighed.
“Do you like it?”
Pondering he looked down onto Slavik, smiling up brightly at him, hair tousled, cheeks red and the tattoo an abomination on his flawless skin. But Vlad couldn’t deny the appeal. Somehow it suited Slavik. More than any artistically designed and skillfully inked tattoo in the world could, so he nodded.
“Yeah. It's very… you.”
With a happy laugh Slavik let the dustpan clatter to the floor and the next thing Vlad knew was that Slavik was not only good at cooking chebureki but also very, very good at tickling. Kicking his feet Vlad almost toppled over on the kitchen table trying to avoid the deft fingers, screaming. “Stop it!! Stop it, goddamit!!! Please!! Ah!”
And after another moment Slavik did stop, laughing and with sparkling blue eyes. “Wow,” he said, voice low and raspy.
Vlad wiped tears from his eyes and looked back at him, heart beating staccato.
“You have a gorgeous smile.”
Notes:
God, I love Slavik so much!
If anybody reads this, please drop me a line or even just a single character or exclamation mark in the comments so I know you are there ^^' Thanks!
Chapter 3: Almost Black
Notes:
Warning: Very graphic depiction of self harm.
Check out the playlist on YouTube my precious Sprosslee made for this story, but make sure you have tissues ready <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Vlad realized that he couldn't remember when he had smiled the last time. He didn't remember if he had ever smiled. Sure, there were photos of him from elementary school in which he looked genuinely happy, but he didn't remember the feeling that caused such a facial expression at all.
That had changed today.
Slavik was ridiculously oblivious of the chaos he caused in Vlad's head. He had just resumed cleaning the kitchen and then insisted that Vlad went to bed and rested after all that trouble. “Can I come again tomorrow?” he had asked. Vlad didn't have the heart to crash his hopes and say no. He had ruined Slavik’s smile once, he didn't want it to happen again.
That night Vlad sat at his window with a cigarette when the crow came. A flutter of wings and then the sound of claws on the windowsill, like usual. It was as familiar as the sunset and the change of seasons.
Vlad fed the crow with pieces of cheese from his fridge. They both remained silent. There was no need for words in neither of their languages.
In fact Vlad had tried to write his thoughts down but it was fruitless. The words didn't come like they used to all the nights before, for years. It was the first time that he couldn't make sense of the things in his head. What appeared as fragments starting to form a picture when collected in his notebook, tonight felt more like a knotted ball of yarn he couldn't find the loose thread of. He tugged here and there, but instead of unraveling it seemed to make things worse.
What was obvious was that he couldn't handle Slavik. Not just like that, not with the tools he had. He could cut himself as much as he wanted, the weird feeling didn't disappear. Sounds and images and feelings came back again and again, echoing back and forth in his chest and head in the dark and silence of the night. Slavik’s laughter, Slavik’s shimmering eyes, Slavik’s broad chest. His big hands on Vlad's waist, his happy smile, his voice, low and breathless. “You have a gorgeous smile.” What kind of word was that even, gorgeous . Not pretty or nice or cute , but gorgeous .
The crow hopped around on the windowsill a little, then took off again. Vlad fell back onto his sheets with a sigh. When he fell asleep the weird feeling in his chest was still there.
*
There was in fact nothing gorgeous about Vlad. It became obvious when he stood in front of his mirror the next morning and stared at what was supposed to be his image. It looked more like a jinxed version of what he had thought he was. Like a nightmare that still contained elements of reality but distorted and twisted it until it became something horrible. Vlad stared at his bare, pale body, skinny and weak and formless like a maggot’s. Red lines decorated his thin arms and legs, the only color in his life, aggressive and ugly. His hair was a mess, black but not black like the crow’s feathers. It was more like oil, shimmering and tacky. There were quite a lot of adjectives to describe what Vlad was, and gorgeous was not one of them.
But because he knew Slavik would show up he bothered to take a shower, wash his hair with shampoo and conditioner, then afterwards applied lotion and makeup. Not sure why he even made all the effort he tossed his favourite sweater and jeans in the laundry. While the washing machine ran in the kitchen, the rumbling a continual background music, he straightened his hair and painted his nails black. By the time the bell rang in the early afternoon Vlad still didn't think he looked good, but he had certainly made the best of it.
“Hey,” Slavik greeted him smiling as brightly as ever. “Nice to see you. You look good.”
Vlad couldn't even reply when suddenly he found himself in a warm embrace. It was the most unexpected thing that had ever happened to him. Even more unexpected than Slavik being so touchy-feely yesterday after the mugs had broken. This time there was no reason for it. They had never hugged before. Vlad had no idea why Slavik would start hugging him now.
It felt nice, though, and that was maybe the worst part of it. After a moment of shock Vlad placed his hands on Slavik’s shoulders. He closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply. And he smiled. It was fucking creepy.
When Slavik let go again there was a blush on his cheeks, or maybe it had been there before from climbing the stairs. Anyway, it looked cute.
“I bought stuff for pilav. I hope it's okay if I use your kitchen. I really like your equipment.”
“Sure,” Vlad murmured, still confused from the unexpected hug. “Come in.”
While Slavik started cooking Vlad sat down at the table to watch him. He wasn't allowed to help, “You're still sick, you have to take it slow!”, so he at least tried not to get in the way and tell Slavik where to find salt and wooden spoons.
In the meantime, Slavik kept chattering like a happy little goose, about cooking and his work at the kiosk and his customers that were more or less part of the inventory already. Vanya, who had spent all his money on the slot machine but never won a significant amount, and Kolya, who was already drunk when he arrived in the morning or maybe just was a weirdo who behaved like an alcoholic, and Sasha, a former KGB agent who had lost an eye and wouldn't tell anyone how it had happened because it was confidential even after all those years.
Vlad didn't know those people. But he enjoyed how vividly Slavik described them, telling one anecdote after the other while chopping onions. It was obvious that he really liked them. At the same time Vlad couldn't comprehend how Slavik could get along with so many different people. He just seemed to be that kind of social butterfly who was everybody's friend.
Maybe it was nothing special that he seemed to be somewhat fond of Vlad. Maybe in the end he was like that around everyone. Maybe Vlad wasn’t anything special at all. Who was he after all? He didn’t have a funny story or a unique character. He was blunt and colorless and without a doubt it was just a coincidence that Slavik had ended up with him. Why else would someone as open and sociable as Slavik even want to do something with a freak like him? The thought stung in his chest. With hanging shoulders he watched Slavik cut carrots.
“You should meet them.” Chop-chop-chop, small pieces of carrot. “You’d like them. I think they’d like you, too.” Chop-chop.
“No.”
All of a sudden it was silent. Vlad didn’t have to look up from the scratch in the tabletop he had been staring at to know Slavik had stopped chopping.
“Why not?”
He didn’t have to look up to know that Slavik had stopped smiling, too.
“Why would they?”
“Would they what?”
“Why would they like me?” Why would anyone like him? He couldn’t even like himself! Why would Slavik like him if he couldn’t even like himself?!
“Because you’re lovely.”
Count on Slavik when it was about unexpected statements. However, the bitterness was quickly overtaking the surprise this time.
“Yeah, lovely, huh?” Vlad felt his insides tense and his fingers clench around the edge of the table. “I’ll tell you what’s lovely. Making chebureki is lovely. Having friends is lovely. Caring for someone is lovely. Chopping fucking carrots for pilav is lovely. Wanna know what’s not lovely? Locking yourself up in your room for days, because you can’t handle social intercourse. Cutting your arms and legs open, day after day after day, because it’s the only thing you’re really good at. Keep writing down all those things that don’t make sense, because obviously you’re even too stupid for that now, unable to get anything in order, especially not your-fucking-self. Not lovely, not lovely at all. Can’t even make sense of this- this bullshit that’s going on here, with you and your freckles and your hugs and whatever it is that you are trying to prove here, but it’s not- it’s not what you think it is. I’m not like anyone, I’m not like them, I’m-”
“I know!” Slavik put the knife down carefully and pushed the cutting board aside, a few small pieces of carrot tumbling onto the tabletop. “And that’s why I like you. Because you are different than all the people I know. Because you are sarcastic and smart and straightforward. I like you because you are you-”
“Then I’ve got some news for you,” Vlad interrupted him, looking up. “I didn’t want to be like this. I didn’t wake up one morning and said ‘Hey, how about I become a gloomy, depressive, self-harming freak for a change, just to be different’, it wasn’t like that! I want to be like everyone else! I don’t want to be abnormal! I hate that! But I can’t change anything about that! I just have to be this way, no matter how much it sucks to be me! I didn't become like that for your entertainment. I wish I could not be me!” He didn’t even know why he was so angry all of a sudden, but he was aware that he was being unfair to Slavik. He wasn’t angry at Slavik after all. He was angry at himself. And even more so when he saw how defeated Slavik looked. How faint his smile had gotten, again, because of him.
“But you don’t have to change,” Slavik murmured. “Not for me at least. I really like you the way you are. You’re perfect the way you are. I really think so. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself all the time. I guess you’re not used to being admired like that but, you know, maybe I’m not like other people, either. Maybe there’s something special, something like… I don’t know, like a puzzle. In a thousand pieces, only one fits. If that makes sense.” He smiled the most insecure smile. “Does it make sense?”
When Vlad answered his voice broke so there was only a whisper. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you want to be here with me when there’s billions of people out there who are… not like me.”
“There’s no one I want to be with as much as I want to be with you,” Slavik said, “ because there’s no one else like you.”
“I don’t get you, I don’t get you at all.” Vlad hid his face in his hands as if that would make this mess go away.
“You don’t need to,” Slavik replied gently. “I don’t get you either. But I accept you. Because I like you so much.”
A sound bubbled from Vlad’s throat, a mixture of a sob and a chuckle. He’d been aware that Slavik couldn’t be measured with regular units. Who would have thought it was that bad, though. The thing was that it did make things easier. If they just stopped trying to make sense of each other, if they just accepted what they had and went with the flow it could be very simple. Vlad just had to stop assuming that Slavik judged him like all the other people had throughout his entire life. If Slavik really didn’t care why he was that way, or if or how he could be improved, if he didn’t regard him as a failure or an experiment, then maybe Vlad could do that, too. If Slavik accepted him without questioning, maybe he could learn to accept himself too, even if just a little.
“Can I ask you something, though?” Slavik asked hesitantly. “Is there- is there something wrong with my freckles?”
Vlad peeked through his fingers. “What makes you think so?”
“You said something about that. About me and my freckles and my hugs and… I didn’t understand what you meant with that, to be honest.”
Vlad sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with your freckles.”
“And with my hugs?”
Vlad thought about that for a moment. “No. There isn’t anything wrong with your hugs, either. I’m just not used to people hugging me, or being close generally.”
“Do you think you can get used to it?”
For a moment Vlad watched Slavik’s cheeks reddening. Why did he look so cute when that happened? And why did the sight make Vlad feel so fuzzy inside?
“Yeah,” he answered finally, making the smile return to Slavik’s face. “I think I could get used to that.”
*
A couple days later it happened for the second time.
Slavik had made blini for Vlad, soft, fluffy, tiny blini like Vlad had never eaten before in his life. Slavik didn’t want to tell him how he managed to do that. “Babushka’s secret,” he said with a wink.
They had finished eating and Slavik was cleaning the kitchen, his jacket hanging from the chair as usual and his freckles like gold sprinkles on his neck and shoulders, driving Vlad crazy. “Can I stay a little longer?” he asked when he had just put the last plate aside to dry. Usually he left after the dishes were done, so Vlad was surprised about the question.
“You know, I forgot my key at home and my uncle won’t be home until later tonight, so I thought maybe I could wait until then here?”
Vlad shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t have plans anyway, besides locking himself up in his bedroom and be depressed. Well, he couldn’t do that with Slavik around, but it wouldn’t kill him. “Wanna watch some TV?”
Slavik followed him into the bedroom like a puppy.
Vlad had never let anyone into his bedroom before. To be accurate, he had never let anyone into his apartment from the start, but his bedroom was the most intimate part of the entire flat. His sanctuary. A dark, cold cavern.
There was his bed, right under the window, a pile of pillows stuffed into a corner like a nest for some weird giant bird. The shutter was closed, of course. Vlad never opened the shutter before 10 p.m. The crow didn’t come earlier than that anyway, and he didn’t want to see the outside in bright daylight if he could avoid it.
Next to the bed was the old bedside cabinet with a small dusty lamp, his laptop and an overflowing ashtray on it. On the left there was his wardrobe, the open doors giving sight to various shades of black, grey and more black. Pushed against the wall in the far back was Vlad’s desk that he never even used for writing in his notebook much less for homework. It was more a shelf space for books and papers and the dessert plate with the three thick candles. When in his bedroom, Vlad basically only ever sat on his bed. So that was what he did now, switching the small lamp on the bedside cabinet on.
Slavik stood in the middle of the small, cold room, staring at the painting when the light came on. Covering the entirety of the wall above the desk there was a heart, not stylized like Slavik’s tattoo but just as red, a realistic, very detailed painting of a human heart, all with arteries, veins and the aorta twisted around it.
“Wow.” Slavik stared at it in awe. “That’s so beautiful.”
Vlad pulled his legs up onto the mattress, wrapping his arms around the knees, somewhat self-conscious. He hadn’t expected that anyone would ever see this place, so he’d gone all emo, painting two days on it until he thought he was high from the vapours of the paint. He’d felt like he had accomplished something for himself for once, but now that someone else saw it he was a little embarrassed.
Finally Slavik turned away, then sat down next to him on the mattress. “Did you paint that?”
Vlad shrugged, then nodded.
“Wow,” Slavik said again, smiling. “How is everything you do so beautiful?”
“What does that even mean?” Vlad murmured, blushing. He tried to hide behind his knees a little more, but of course it didn’t work with Slavik so close. “What have I ever done that you could think is beautiful?”
With an awkward sense of seriousness straining his voice Slavik said: “Everything. I mean look at you. Everything about you is so beautiful. Your hair and your makeup and the way you dress. Even your fingernails.” He reached out and let the tip of his index finger run over the black nail polish Vlad had applied a few days ago. He was so gentle it gave Vlad a strange feeling in his chest. “Everything is so on point. Like you’re a piece of art yourself.”
In this moment Vlad really, really wanted to get up and run away, screaming. He wanted to push Slavik away and insult him for being a sappy asshole, for making him feel like throwing up. He wanted to make Slavik stop, stop saying those stupid, cute things to him.
But then again he didn’t want to. What he really wanted was to know if Slavik meant what he said. If he really just said out loud what popped up in his head without a brain for a filter, or common sense or pride or embarrassment. Vlad wanted to hear that it was what Slavik really, truly felt, because he wanted so much that Slavik thought about him this way. And he wanted more of it. He wanted the compliments and the gentle touches. The soft looks from the light blue eyes and the warmth of Slavik so close to him. And maybe, just maybe, a little more.
Instead he tilted his head forward to make his hair hide his blush. “Don’t be silly.”
And then it happened for the second time: with a way too soft smile Slavik pushed the curtain of black hair aside and tucked it behind Vlad’s ear, leaving a trace of warmth on his cheek. Just like that day when Vlad had ran away from him, left him behind because his heart beat so hard against his ribs he was afraid it’d break them.
“That's not silly. I mean it. You don't need to hide yourself.”
But unlike the day he had come back home and cut his arms because he didn't know what else to do with all these emotions , this time Vlad didn't flee. Instead he looked Slavik in the eye when he pulled the sleeves of his oversized hoodie up and presented his arms, wrist up. “What about these?”
Slavik’s exhale was shivering, his smile weak. His eyes traced the shimmering white lines and the thick red ones up one arm, then down the other. He studied the scars and day-old wounds just like he had studied the drawing on the wall, if not even more thorough. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch the broken flesh but he didn't dare. Vlad was thankful for that, he didn't think he could have beared it. It was hard enough not to pull away from Slavik. In fact the one thing that made him keep his arms stretched out was that there was no pity in Slavik’s eyes. He didn't look like he felt sorry for Vlad. And when he looked up at him again his bright smile was back.
“They're a part of you. So I like them.”
Speechless, Vlad let his arms hang. Why was he even surprised? Had he really expected Slavik to say something negative about him? Had Slavik ever said anything negative about him?
“I kinda wish you wouldn't do that,” Slavik murmured. “But that's probably because I don't understand why you do it. When I look at them I can only imagine that it hurts. But maybe for you it's different.”
“It's not,” Vlad said slowly. “It hurts.”
“But you still do it. Why?”
“It's hard to explain.” Vlad sat back and took a cigarette from the box on the nightstand. Leaning against the pillow nest he inhaled the first draw deeply. “I tried so many times to make people understand but I don't think it ever really worked. Not even when I had doctors or therapists to solve my problems. I think to comprehend you need to have a certain mindset. My mindset is emotionless. I feel empty. Cold. Like I'm hollow, or a husk or something.” He took another draw, then slowly exhaled. Slavik listened closely. “I get overwhelmed with emotions easily. It's why I avoid people. I can't handle their feelings or how they act in certain situations and it scares me. At the same time I long for something that's not just… dull. Or… pale. I want to feel but the amount of what I need is much less than what I can get. So it’s like it's either never enough or way too much. With pain it's different. I can control it. It’s real. But I can stop when I'm satisfied. I cut until I am at ease. Do you know what I mean?”
Slavik nodded. “Doesn't it work with anything else?”
Vlad had to think about that for a moment. “You mean like eating or alcohol or drugs?” He looked down onto the cigarette. “I don't think so. I never tried drugs, but I can tell that eating or drinking doesn't have the same immediate effect. Like, if you drink it takes some time until you get drunk. In the meantime you might have drunk even more and then spoiled your intake. It probably takes some experimenting until you know how much of what you can drink and even then it's still affected by what you ate that day and other things. It would still be unsafe. So, cutting works best for me.”
Silence spread in the twilight of the room as Vlad finished his cigarette and Slavik stared into the void, strangely quiet.
“I have thought about this a lot,” Slavik eventually confessed. He took his hat off and turned his upper body towards Vlad, his gaze intense. “I'd like to see it. I'd like to be with you when you do it.”
With raised eyebrows Vlad stubbed his cigarette out. “Why?”
“Because it's important to you. I want to understand it.”
“I don't know, Slavik,” he murmured. “I don't think that's for you. You are a good person. I don't want to corrupt you.”
“Don't worry about me so much.” With a soft smile Slavik leaned over and wrapped his arms around Vlad carefully. The hug was gentle but warm and without thinking about it Vlad leaned into it. Slavik’s breath was in Vlad's hair when he added: “If this is something that makes you happy, I want to know more about it. If it doesn't bother you.”
It did bother Vlad, he'd be a liar if he denied that. But just as much he liked the way Slavik didn't judge him. And the way he held him, too.
“It doesn't make me happy,” he corrected him nevertheless, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Slavik’s shoulder. He could feel his heartbeat. “It just makes me a little less unhappy.”
“Then that's okay for me.”
Carefully Vlad wrapped his arms around Slavik’s upper body. The fabric of the wife beater felt smooth against his bare forearms. He hadn't cut his skin for some days, since the day when Slavik had first come to see him with the bag of chebureki. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent Slavik radiated. It was musky but also sweet, like blini. It made him feel warm inside.
“I can show you, now”, he decided. “Just promise me not to freak out.”
He felt the embrace tightening around his shoulders a little.
“I don't want you to hurt yourself because of me.”
Slavik’s objection almost made Vlad laugh. If only Slavik knew. “You're not the reason”, he explained. “You're the trigger.”
“I'm not sure wether that's better or worse.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Vlad murmured. “This isn’t the real thing anyway. It’s just a demonstration.”
“But,” Slavik cut in again, “that’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to do it when it’s not needed. I don’t want you to unnecessarily hurt yourself.”
“What do you know if it's necessary or not? How can you tell this isn’t necessary now?”
“Because I asked you…”
Vlad sat up and looked at Slavik intensely. “Do you want me to do it or not? I'll let you see it now or never. If you don't like it, you can leave, but never ask me again.”
Slavik looked troubled. Vlad could practically hear the gears in his head moving. “If I leave now,” he asked, slowly like the thought wasn't finished in his head yet, “and then come back and stay with you all the time, forever, does that mean you'll never hurt yourself again just so I won't see?”
Vlad stared at him. Technically it did make sense, like so often when Slavik came up with his weird ideas.
“No way,” he said. “I wouldn't even let you stay that long.”
“But I'm stronger than you, you can't just throw me out.”
“I'll call the cops then.”
“I'll fight against them.”
“They'll be backed up by the garde.”
Slavik huffed, defeated.
“What's your problem anyway?” With crinkled eyebrows Vlad watched how Slavik let his shoulders hang. He regretted that he had sat up again. He had liked the warm embrace. “First you ask me if you can see it and then you don't want me to do it ever again?”
Slavik looked up at him, a smile on his face. “I just want you to be happy.”
Bullshit , Vlad thought, gritting his teeth. “Don't make me laugh.”
“But that's the point.”
Making a face Vlad turned away. He doubted he'd ever get what was wrong with Slavik. He didn't even know what was wrong with himself. How had they ended up here? In Vlad's room, on his bed, Slavik looking at him with his stupid smile and those blue, blue eyes. Like a parasite that had sucked itself onto Vlad's skin and sapped from him, asking for more and more. Like a goddamn squirrel that had scampered his way into Vlad's calm, miserable life and made him feel so insecure about everything.
Just because Slavik asked the wrong questions and gave unexpected answers. Because he was so unlike everyone Vlad knew. Not like his mother who wanted to magically change him into another person with those fucking pills, or his therapists who saw him as nothing but a really hard nut they weren't able to crack. Or the people who looked at him and saw nothing but a freak they could wonder about. How had Slavik, a goddamn gopnik, ended up here with him, in his lair, his toned, warm, tan arms wrapped around him, telling him he wanted to make him happy. Which of course would never happen, because Vlad simply wasn't capable of ever being happy.
And still…
“I want you to see it.” He turned to Slavik again, his hair swinging back and forth. “Now or never.”
Never before had Slavik’s voice sounded so insecure. “Okay.”
This time Vlad chose a razor blade. He kept his knives in the small drawer of the bedside cabinet, all thoroughly lined up like in a tool box. He took the blade out with thin, white fingers and let Slavik look at it by holding it out to him.
“For now this will do,” he explained while Slavik eyed the shimmering metal. “I choose the blade from the quality of pain I require. Sometimes I want to cut deep. Then I use these or the cutters. When I want more blood I use one of the regular knives.”
“So these don't bleed so much?”
“The cut is straight and clean. If I cut deep it can hurt a lot but the wound closes quickly. The scars are thin and fade away within a few months. Shall we start?”
Slavik nodded, then toed his Adidas off and moved back so he sat with his back against the wall. With just the slightest smile he opened his arms.
Vlad blushed when he moved over to him.
“Can you lean against me?” Slavik murmured. “So I can look over your shoulder? I want to see what you see.”
Without an answer Vlad did as he had been asked. He leaned his back against Slavik’s chest, feeling it move with every breath. He could tell Slavik was nervous when he very softly placed his hands on Vlad's waist.
“Is this okay?”
It wasn't. Vlad's breath hitched when Slavik’s voice was right next to his ear and his warmth all around him. “S-sure.” Maybe he could need a few cuts after all.
Slavik gasped when the first cut split the white skin of the underside of Vlad’s forearm. It didn't even bleed in the beginning with how delicate the cut was, so Vlad kept cutting. He had placed the razor blade on his arm for the fourth time already when small read beads came into view, tiny, like pin points and almost black in the dim, yellowish light of the bedside lamp.
“Those aren't lethal, are they?”
It almost made Vlad laugh. “No. Not even close.”
Vlad continued cutting, one line parallel to the previous one. In the beginning, when he had first started cutting his arms, it had been a criss-cross of lines that was still visible today. He had cut deep back then, with any knife he had found, still as clueless as 12-year-old boys are. Later he had learned that criss-crossing was a waste of space. The more he kept his cuts in order the later he ran out of skin. Both sides of his forearm, upper arms and thighs added up he usually didn't get into that kind of trouble anymore. That was unless he encountered any serious problems that left him with more mental stress than his everyday life. He only still cut his legs nowadays because it caused a different kind of pain that he really liked at times.
Overall there was no standard amount of cuts he usually inflicted. With skilled, fast movements Vlad lined the cuts up next to each other. Seven. Eight. The blood of the earlier cuts prickled when it came to the surface, more tiny dark red beads.
After a dozen cuts he stopped.
For some time they both remained silent. While Vlad felt very calm, even in Slavik’s arms, he could feel the heart beat heavy against the chest behind him. The grip on his waist had tightened since the first cut and the breath against his neck had hitched.
“You’re relaxed,” Slavik murmured eventually. His voice low and soft, rumbling in his chest against Vlad’s shoulders. It made him shiver.
“Yeah. That’s why I do it. To feel calm. To feel stable. To feel…” Not empty .
Hesitantly Slavik lifted his left hand from Vlad’s waist and reached out for his thin forearm. Slowly, like he wanted to give Vlad time to object. But it didn’t happen. Instead Slavik brushed his fingers lightly over Vlad’s white wrist, then down the side of his forearm, not touching the fresh cuts. His fingertips were so soft and gentle it gave Vlad goosebumps.
“I want to try.”
The sentence hung between them for a few seconds, then Vlad turned his head to look at Slavik. “What?”
There was no smile on Slavik’s lips. He looked down on Vlad’s arm, stern and determined. It took Vlad off-guard but at the same time he realized how handsome Slavik was. There was a slight crinkle between his eyebrows and his eyes shimmered with resolve. His freckles looked like dark golden paint sprinkles on his cheeks and nose.
There was more to Slavik than careless smiles and playfulness. Something deep and serious, like another person that hid behind the Slavik Vlad had seen before. It made Vlad’s heart beat faster and then skip a beat when the look out of sky blue eyes shifted to Vlad.
“Please.”
Vlad couldn’t look away from those eyes. “Why?” His voice was breathless. They were too close, he realized, way too close. But he couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.
Slavik’s breath was warm on Vlad’s lips when he spoke. “I want to feel what you feel.”
“Why?”
“I want to understand. I want to know why you do this to yourself. Why you harm yourself. How it makes you feel better. Why you become to relaxed and at peace when you cut your skin.”
“You can’t.” With all willpower he could bring up Vlad turned his head away. “You’re not like me. It won’t work for you.”
“Let me try.”
“No!” Vlad stared at his arm. The flesh littered with scars and wounds and the blood a sharp red against white. And right there next to it sun-tan skin, flawless and soft, tiny golden hairs shimmering on Slavik’s toned forearm. “I won’t let you.” Slavik would ruin it. He wasn’t used to cutting, he didn’t know how deep, how long, how many. He’d do it wrong and spoil his perfect skin with scars as ugly and nasty as the atrocious criss-cross pattern 12-year-old Vlad had left on his skin. “I can’t let you,” he added. “You don’t know how.”
Then, after a moment, Slavik said: “Then you do it.”
He was serious, no doubt. Vlad couldn’t even be surprised, really. It was something Slavik would say. He should have expected this. It had been inevitable. And of course it made sense. He did know how to do it. He did know how deep, how long, how many. If there was anyone in this world who could do it with as little harm as possible it was him. And he didn’t want Slavik to be hurt, but if there was anyone who was allowed do it he wanted to be the one. He could keep him safe. He was the only one.
“Are you sure?” His voice was a mere whisper and Slavik’s was too when he answered. “Please.”
Biting his lip Vlad wrapped his fingers around Slavik’s wrist, turning it around. The skin was so warm, the tendons thick and taut under the skin. Even in the dim light Vlad could see thick blue veins run up Slavik’s muscular arm. He had to be careful not to cut too deep and damage them. And now he was kind of glad that Slavik let him do it. It would have been a real mess if Slavik had tried it himself and accidentally cut into one of the thick veins.
Carefully he placed the blade on the skin. Inhaled.
“Vlad, please.”
Exhaled. Cut.
Slavik didn’t make a sound.
Vlad cut again. Like before there was no blood yet, only an invisible line that turned pink, before the small droplets started showing when Vlad carefully made the third cut.
“More?” he asked and Slavik hummed, so he continued. Cut after cut. Seven. Eight. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I want twelve.”
So Vlad kept cutting. One neat line next to the previous one. Eleven, twelve. Finally. He let the razor blade clatter into the drawer and sighed, relieved.
The truth was that the cuts looked beautiful on Slavik’s skin. Vlad scrutinized them as they were decorated by small red dots, not even big enough to form a drop heavy enough to detach from the split skin. They looked like tiny red gemstones, threaded on an invisible twine and coiled around Slavik’s arm. They darkened with time, like those on Vlad’s arm had. He took Slavik’s hand, their lower arms parallel and so similar now.
Twelve cuts each.
Realization hit Vlad hard. I want twelve , because of course Slavik wanted twelve. I want to feel what you feel .
He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever done something like this for him. He stared down at their arms, the blood dark dots, and tried hard not panic. He didn’t understand. He never had and probably never would. Slavik was just not rational, not like he was. Why did he do such things? Why did he put himself through all that trouble? Why did he even try to understand Vlad? Why was he here, so close, so warm, so soft? Vlad would never know the answer. He wasn’t good with normal people and the way they thought and felt, and Slavik was by no means normal. He had let Vlad cut his arm with a fucking razor blade, twelve times, why ? He would never understand how Vlad worked. Just like Vlad would never understand how Slavik worked. And still. He tried. He did so much. He went where no one had gone before. Why ?
A drop fell from Vlad’s eyes, then another one.
“Hey,” Slavik whispered. So close. “What’s wrong?” He shifted behind Vlad, placed his hands on Vlad’s skinny shoulders and then Vlad was in his arms again, his face pressed against the freckled shoulder and he sobbed, wetting Slavik’s skin and wife beater with his tears.
“I’m okay”, he sobbed. “I’m fine, I’m just… I don’t know.” His hands fisted the white fabric and he was aware that he probably smeared the blood from his cuts all over Slavik, but then Slavik held him closer and buried his nose in Vlad’s hair.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here with you.”
It only made Vlad cry harder.
“It’s alright.” With one big hand he rubbed Vlad’s back. “I’ll take care of you. I promise, it’ll be alright. I’m here.”
He held Vlad until he stopped crying, and then a little more. Vlad felt exhausted but somehow calm with Slavik so close.
“This is nice,” he murmured eventually, closing his eyes.
Slavik’s hand still caressed his back.
Notes:
About the cutting:
I can write that because my best friend did that when I got to know her. It took me a lot of effort to make her stop and even today I'm proud that I could help her out of this. But I was able to help her only because she opened up to me. So, if you are in a similar situation, don't hesitate to ask for help. You might find someone who wants to help in unexpected places, so don't let anyone stop you or feel bad about yourself. Just have trust that at some point there will be someone there for you who can help you feel better. Or maybe you are the person who can give support, too. I can tell from my own experience that it's a wonderful feeling to help someone out. Maybe this is what this story is all about at the end of the day.
sprosslee on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Jun 2018 05:27PM UTC
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Honestmabe on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Jun 2018 02:26AM UTC
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Honestmabe on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Jun 2018 02:27AM UTC
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sprosslee on Chapter 2 Sun 24 Jun 2018 06:28AM UTC
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sprosslee on Chapter 3 Wed 04 Jul 2018 03:50PM UTC
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Wakinyan+Sandoval (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Jan 2019 06:17PM UTC
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Oceanwhirl on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Jan 2019 06:20PM UTC
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